Harper’s pistol clicked empty. The man grunted and patted at his coat pocket.
“Get them out of here!” Effie shouted at him. She tightened the grip on her cane and waved it at those held captive.
The grindylow crept toward her. Its mouth gaped. Yellow teeth shone against the pale flesh of its lips.
Effie leveled the cane before her and braced herself to leap. The tip of the cane wavered as she struggled to keep her arms still. It caused the silvery light to cast dancing shadows at the corners of her vision.
She could hear Harper working at the bonds of those held captive. Grunts and muttered curses uttered from a pair of deep-timbered voices.
The grindylow cackled and lunged at her.
Effie raised the cane to swipe. She didn’t see the rock sailing from the shadows until it struck her at the temple. The chamber spun and darkened. She stumbled and fell to her knees. A wetness dribbled down the side of her face.
A tittering laughter echoed above her.
13
Rotting vines entwined her. They sprouted from the chamber floor, from the walls, and from the arms of the grindylow. Their thorns bit into her flesh. Their weight shoved her down, yanking her through the hard-packed dirt and into darkness.
She fought them. She ripped and tore with her hands until her fingers grew slick with blood. Vines crept into her mouth, trying to suffocate her. She batted them away and snapped her teeth shut. She didn’t panic. She had faced the assault before. She knew the Fey Craft for what it was—a trick. A deadly trick, but one all the same.
Light flared anew. Vines and stone and dirt dissolved in a swirling pattern of greens, browns, and greys.
Effie blinked and found herself in a broad glen. She stood beneath trees. Proud oaks ringed her in a circle, their gnarled bark twisted with age. A sweet scent of mistletoe and hazelnut hung in the air. Beneath it, a hint of wood smoke lingered.
An elderly fey watched her from one of the boughs. The woman had the almond eyes and sharp cheeks of a pixie, but she was much older than that race. She held a firm beauty, too, like that of a fierce storm.
Effie had met the woman once before. She forced her arms to remain still at her sides, refusing to give into the fear that crept through her bones.
“What have you done?” she demanded. “What is this place?”
“I have done nothing,” said the Barrow Witch. “You sleep. You dream of the truth and deny your eyes.”
Effie’s mind whirled. “I must draw close, to provoke you thus.” Her voice trembled. She heard the doubt in it. The Barrow Witch had taunted her with illusions of danger after the capture of Cyrus Reed. She had infected her dreams before that. But those had been faceless threats. The Sidhe Bhreige had only presented herself once before in this dreamlike state. In the underground chambers of Les Revinirs, while Effie lingered under the effects of opium, she had tried to convince Effie to join her cause.
Effie couldn’t fathom what it meant that she came to her now in the bowels of Aberdeen, yet she doubted it random.
The Barrow Witch’s pealing laughter held the power of thunder. The simple tunic she wore shimmered silver as she quivered with mirth. The oak trees rustled, as if an unseen force gusted against them.
“Draw close? You have not the power to hold back the wind, to deny the weight of stone, or to shatter a storm,” she said. “You seek to punish those you deem corrupted. Why do you fear them so? They are only children of the forest, of the fields, and of the hills. The same as yourself. Can they not live as they please?”
“They…they…” Effie started to speak, but the argument that sprang to her lips dissolved. She blinked. The notion didn’t sound nearly as absurd as it should. Her head swam, and she wondered why she feared the Unseily fey. It was true they only followed their nature. Wasn’t theirs better than those who oppressed her kind?
She glanced at the oaks. A lingering thought confused her certainty. It tickled at the back of her mind, fighting to grab hold. She grasped at it and remembered. When last the Barrow Witch had revealed herself, a host of fey had frolicked beneath an intense moonlight. Drums had beaten, and the crackling flames of a great bonfire had warmed the night. But not all had been as it seemed.
The memory started to slip away. Effie chased it, clawing to keep it at the forefront of her mind. It was important, the part that came next. Three men had come to the clearing and offered to sacrifice a young boy. They killed to please the Sidhe Bhreige. It was what the ancient fey considered man’s true nature—that of subservient beasts.
Effie’s eyes widened. She ripped at the fog that veiled her thoughts. Clarity returned, and with it, fury.
“You are a horror.” She spat the words.
The Barrow Witch’s lips curled into a hungry grin. Her eyes became shrewder. The angles of her cheeks sharpened. “I am many things, young Grundbairn. But I will return all to their natural order, to what was, and what was meant to be.”
“Through slaughter and torment?”
“You steel yourself against your future. You fight it without cause. But you will see as I have seen. You will join my court, Grundbairn. You will know elation as the usurping queen is brought low and my rightful place is restored.”
“Your rightful place is in the Downward Fields,” said Effie. “Sealed away so you can no longer cause any harm. Yet you will never return there. The queen’s armies will destroy you long before that becomes a possibility.”
The Barrow Witch growled. Her flesh paled to the grey of stone. In the light of the bonfire, it appeared dead, like something left to rot. Her hair thinned and eyes sank until they were beady orbs that shone a fiery red.
“She will swing from her own usurper’s tree. I will see to it.” The ground rumbled as the Sidhe Bhreige spoke. The boughs of the oaks swayed and groaned. Their roots pulled up through the earth, snapping and splintering.
Something tickled along Effie’s arms. She yanked back and felt the tug of invisible roots entwining her limbs. Ripping harder, some broke away. Yet others held firm. Without thought, she called on Fey Craft. She pulled water from the ground, causing it to spray upward in a dewy mist. The droplets kissed the invisible roots and allowed her to trace them as they sprouted from the trees.
There were thousands. She gasped at the snaking web. Even as she took them in, they grew barbs that scratched searing red cuts across her skin. She shrieked from the agony as she ripped and tore. She flailed madly with her arms and kicked with her legs. But the roots ensnared her, biting deep and constricting. They wrapped around her chest and legs.
She struggled to cling to what she had known before—that the roots were only a trick. But the knowledge did not matter. She could not convince herself of its truth. Fear had taken hold. Her breath shallowed. She grew lightheaded.
“Do not struggle, dear child,” said the Barrow Witch. “Your breath will not be your last. My children have captured you and slain your companion. When you wake, you will be mine. You will be my most prized possession.”
14
Sparkling dots flashed before Effie’s eyes. Her throat burned from her dry, wheezing gasps. Her arms could no longer move, nor her legs. She tried to force the roots to whither. She tried to summon new-growth vines and grasses to aid her. But none of her Fey Craft worked.